


Au Revoir

by OllyJay



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M, MFMM Year of Tropes, Post-Season/Series 03, Space Phrack, Space and Time, Timey-Wimey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-31
Updated: 2017-08-03
Packaged: 2018-12-08 21:38:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11655240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OllyJay/pseuds/OllyJay
Summary: Phryne is working her most important case ever, the murder of Detective Inspector Jack Robinson of the Victorian Police force.You’re important to me. I think if there’s anything that will last forever, it’s that. Whether we separate, stay in touch or rarely speak again, you will always be that little someone I really do care for, that I would sacrifice everything for to protect and keep safe.Beau Taplin quote found on Tumblr dashboard one day.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> With thanks to solitary_cyclist for her patience in reviewing this fic, dealing with my tech issues and just generally putting up with me ❤️

MELBOURNE - 4 NOVEMBER 1938

This is ridiculous, Phryne told herself, conscious of the way her pulse sped up the instant her eyes found him. In fact, the whole thing was embarrassingly melodramatic and she was most emphatically _not_ pining over long lost love like the heroine in an 18th century novel. 

Despite this, her eyes wandered slowly across each well remembered feature noticing he used less pomade in his hair, the waves creating a softer frame to the angles of his face and it suited him. His mannerisms remained unchanged though, the tilt of the head, the slight furrow of the brow, the play of a smile, combining so well with the changeable blue-grey of his eyes and the unchangeable nature of those cheekbones. 

He wore the more casual clothes of this time too, trousers of dark blue and a white shirt. But the brown brogues, navy waistcoat and tie? Using her imagination she added a matching suit jacket, red-lined coat and the fedora she had bought him, and there he was, _her_ Jack.

The woman sitting at the table outside the tea shop with him laughed at something he said as she stood, shiny black bob swinging briefly around her perfectly made up face before returning to its normal effortless elegance. 

God, she hated that hairstyle, she thought, running her hand through her own practical short cropped hair. It was too much; she turned and walked away. She knew coming here every year did her no good - but it was all she had.

* * *

He smiled at the woman sitting opposite him.

“Excuse me, Jack.” She stood, straightening herself into her normal sartorial perfection. “I need to powder my nose.”

“Your nose, like the rest of you, is perfect. Powder won’t improve it.”

She laughed, shiny black hair swaying around her. “Jack Robinson, one day you will turn my head saying things like that.” 

He watched her walk away and when he was sure he was alone, he reached for his wallet, opening it to find the photo. Looking down at her image he ran his thumb along the edge of the photo, remembering. After a moment he returned the photo to his wallet and raised his eyes. The slum housing had long since been knocked down and the docks redeveloped so many times there was virtually no trace of old Melbourne in this part of the city. He reached back into his memory, superimposing the docklands of 1929 over the modern landscape... 

...Now, he could feel the heat, the smarting of his eyes from the acrid smoke, the burning sensation in his lungs as he gasped for breath, and he remembered how it felt to know you were about to die.


	2. Chapter 2

MELBOURNE - 4 NOVEMBER 1929

Detective Inspector Jack Robinson hurled himself through the open doorway, slamming the door behind him and heading to the window. He took his scorched jacket off, wrapping it around his right hand and forearm before striking the glass, pushing it out, leaving the window frame empty. Then, hands on either side of the window, he leaned forward breathing deeply, fresh air rushing into his smoke filled lungs. 

For awhile this was enough, but as he wiped ash and grime from his still smarting eyes he could see that it was at least four floors from the ground and the reality of his situation returned. As did his hearing, though the noise of the all devouring fire was the only thing to hear.

Turning from the window he slid, with his back to the wall, down to the ground, knees bent. He let his arms rest on his knees and put his head in his hands fighting the dizziness that threatened to overcome him, trying to stay conscious. His wandering mind latched onto the ticket in the pocket of his coat – long lost and no doubt smouldering somewhere below; no, he recalled now, he had thrown it over the toddler, in an attempt to protect her from the flames as he carried her to safety, her mother with her other child behind him. He had saved them, she would be proud, it was at least a hero's death.

A cry from below reminded him of all those he had failed to save, those caught in the crossfire between him and Caleb Denison, because this fire today was very much the murder weapon Denison had selected to rid himself of the police officer who had become an increasing thorn in his side. It had been a long dance, spanning almost Jack’s entire career, but it was drawing to a close now and Jack’s meticulous plan had failed him. 

It had been a good plan though, and had worked for many years especially when she had arrived. To help. The last two years of his life, spent solving crimes with her, had been the best; exhilarating, exciting and he had fallen head over heels in love. And tomorrow the ship would leave that was supposed to take him to her – but he wouldn’t be on it and maybe she would never know he had intended to follow her.

The sound of the stairwell collapsing drew his attention back to his predicament. Jesus, he didn’t want that, for the floor to disappear below him, casting him unprotected directly into the flames… no, he preferred smoke inhalation and he prayed fervently for someone above to check his tally and grant him that - as reward for all the good he had done. His prayer complete his thoughts returned, as always, to her.

Once she heard, she would come back, seeking revenge. He did a quick mental check of the files in his office and study at home - damn! She would see the connection to Denison, go after him. It would be like Janey all over again. God, he would do anything to save her that, to have her think this was just a random accident, to mourn his death and move on. He found, here, at the end, the image of her spinning around a dance floor - unfettered, strong and glorious - breaking the hearts of every man who saw her brought him a strange comfort.

A strange noise drew his eyes to the ceiling where a part of it appeared to slide open and a well known face appeared, looking down, searching for him. “Hello, Jack.” The cadence of her voice was unmistakable.

Interesting, he thought, that no one had mentioned that delusions preceded death by smoke. He had heard that your life flashed before you but this version of Phryne, with short pixie hair, was distinctly new, as was her hanging upside down. What the hell, he decided, a chat would at least take his mind off things - and there was no one here to judge him. “Hello, Miss Fisher.” His voice sounded rough and he stifled a cough at the end.

“There you are.” Her head swung round to where he was sitting under the broken window. “Oh, you’ve lost the hat I bought you.”

He nodded at the mirage. “Sorry, things got very busy, very quickly.” He had a vague memory of handing it to an elderly woman so she could fan the face of her even older husband whilst he grabbed the hands of their grandchildren to lead them out. He thought for a moment… did they follow him out or did he go back for them? A picture of the four of them outside flashed through his mind… ah that was good… seven then.

“Seven,” he said, “I saved seven people tonight, Miss Fisher.”

“No, you saved twelve, Jack,” she corrected him proudly.

“How many?” he stuttered.

“Twelve,” she replied.

“No. How many died?” he clarified.

“Oh,” a look of sorrow replaced the pride, “eight. I’m sorry, Jack but there’s a man in the room across the hall and on the floor below in the far right is a couple with their 6 month old son.” She saw him struggling to rise. “It’s too late, Jack, the smoke has already got them.”

He slumped back against the wall, beaten, his knees drawn up to his chest. “And the others?”

“They were on the stairwell when it collapsed just now.”

He cradled his head in his hands. “My fault, their deaths are my fault.”

“Denison is to blame, not you.”

The sound of that hated name in her voice brought his head back up.

“Promise me?” he croaked.

“What?”

“Promise me you won’t go after him, seeking revenge. I don’t want that - you obsessed by death again, like you were when we first met,” he begged.

“Revenge is an act of passion; vengeance is an act of justice,” she quoted Samuel Johnson at him. “Bringing Denison to account for your death and theirs would be an act of justice.”

“I don’t need justice, promise me you won’t seek vengeance,” he pleaded, again.

She gazed at him, clearly considering the full implications of what he was asking. “Okay, I won’t.”

He didn’t recognise the word, no doubt it was the latest slang in the night clubs of Europe, but he did recognise truth when he heard it, even if it was from the hallucinated lips of the woman he loved. Oh, yes that reminded him… “I was coming you know, after you… I was leaving tomorrow.”

Somehow everything about her changed, softening, as she said, “I know, Jack and I was waiting.”

“Good,” he coughed, “good.” He straightened his right leg out in front of him, placing his hand on the ground to prop himself up and slouching slightly to the right. “I love you.”

“I know.”

An almost smile appeared on his lips, “I like that, that even in my fevered mind, you have remained the elusive, Honourable Miss Phryne Fisher - right to the very end.”

“What if I said it wasn’t the end?”

He looked at her enquiringly.

“What if I said if you took my hand right now, I could save you?” she asked.

“I might say, why have you made me sit here in this burning hell a second longer than I needed to?” he said good naturedly.

“Oh,” she looked abashed, “It felt like you had things you wanted to say.”

“It is possible I would have happily said those things somewhere with less smoke,” he mused.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she chuckled, “I can’t come down to you but can you stand, Jack, and walk towards me? All you have to do is touch my hand, once you’ve done that I’ll take care of the rest. I’ll reach my hand down as far as I can.”

He thought about it for a moment before deciding he had nothing to lose; whether he died in the middle of the room or under the window was fairly irrelevant and it would make imaginary Phryne happy if he tried, which would be nice. Using the last of his strength, and coughing with every exertion, he managed to stand leaning against the wall, lining himself up ready to walk. He had a feeling he would only have one chance at this; if he missed and fell, he wouldn’t be getting back up anytime soon.

She watched him with concern. “Okay, here we go!” She withdrew her head and a slim pale arm appeared.

Jack staggered towards it, feeling himself topple forward, but at the last moment his fingers touched hers. As he lost consciousness he heard her say, “I love you too, Jack.”


	3. Chapter 3

MELBOURNE - 4 NOVEMBER 1929

Jack opened his eyes but made no move to get out of bed. Instead he lay there thinking about his unusual dream and trying to decide whether he preferred Phryne with short hair. His reverie was interrupted by a knock at his front door. That’ll be Collins, he thought, come to tell me that there has been a body found outside an abandoned warehouse down at the docks. It was a surprisingly detailed bit of deja vu.

Twenty minutes later, on his way out, he ducked into his study. Picking up his notes on Denison, he flicked through them one last time, putting them in order, before placing them in the fireplace and burning them. When he got to the office he sent the young Constable down to the post office with an urgent telegram and burned more of his case files. Just in case.

* * *

Jack hurled himself through the open doorway, slamming the door behind him and heading to the window. He took his scorched jacket off, wrapping it around his right hand and forearm before striking the glass. Then, hands on either side of the window, he leaned forward.

He had found the young couple with the baby and sent them out the back stairwell, he hadn’t made it to the man on this floor, the central stairs that stood between them had already collapsed, taking with them the other four people he had missed. He was glad to have saved the baby though, that felt important. He slid down the wall to sit with his knees up and arms resting on them and looked up at the ceiling, half believing that she would appear but mostly knowing he was mad.

It slid open and she appeared. “Hello, Jack.”

He nodded, “Miss Fisher.”

“You don’t seem surprised to see me,” she noted.

“I’m not, I am never surprised by where you turn up.”

“Still…” she looked perplexed.

“I dreamed of you last night.”

Her eyes glinted. “Really? Was I good?”

He blushed. “It wasn’t that type of dream.”

She winked. “That’s a shame.”

He went an even deeper shade of red and changed the topic. “Do you remember your promise about Denison?”

She looked at him, confused. “Who is Denison?”

That is very interesting, he thought. “Nobody. Did you get my telegram?”

She smiled, “Yes. It seemed wildly romantic at the time,” she paused, “now I see it was even more prophetic than I first thought."

“How many?”

“Five.”

“That’s better.”

“Better than what?”

Even more interesting. “Better than eight,” he said enigmatically.

She nodded at this self-evident truth. “Do you remember me telling you that if you took my hand I could save you?”

“Yes,” he looked around the room that was rapidly filling with smoke before bringing his eyes back to rest on her, “Before we do that, I don't suppose you’d care to explain how you come to be here, dangling from the ceiling?”

“I met a man…”

Jack suppressed a groan, there was always a man.

“...relax, Jack, he was not interested in me, or any woman. Reginald Chartworth the third, the ridiculously rich Earl of Langdon was,” she paused, searching her memory for a 1929 appropriate phrase, “extremely keen on musical theatre. He was also mad as a hatter and convinced he had invented a way to travel through time. He asked me to investigate the death, two years before, of his lover. He wanted me to uncover the murderer and how they had killed him, so he could go back in time to save him.” 

Jack nodded, it sounded eerily familiar. “Did you solve it?”

“Yes.”

“Did he go back and save him?”

She hesitated before answering, “No.”

“Why not?” 

“The science was good but incomplete, there were risks, to him, to his partner, to people around them.”

“Risks he wasn’t prepared to take, unlike you,” Jack noted. The lack of response from her was telling. There was, he thought, a great deal of mystery about her. For a start there were the physical differences: the hair, obviously, but also a certain taut leanness that was new. Then there was something odd in the way she spoke: a word or two he didn't recognise, and hesitations, as though she had to search for the right phrase. He started to cough. “I think it might be time for you to save me.”

Her head disappeared, replaced by the slim pale arm.

“Wait.” A thought had struck him, “How long has it been, Phryne? Since we said goodbye at the airfield? For you?”

Her head reappeared. “Come on, Jack give me your hand, it’s getting far too hot in here.” She disappeared and her arm reached for him.

As he touched her hand, just before it all went black he heard her say, “Ninety years. It took me nearly ninety years to find you.”


	4. Chapter 4

MELBOURNE - 4 NOVEMBER 1929

He opened his eyes to find himself in his own bed. Once again he lay there pondering. Ninety years? For him? It was both flattering and unnerving, and he was far from convinced he was worth the sacrifices she must have made but he was determined to do his best to justify her decision. Assuming she was real, of course. Collins knocked on the front door. He ducked into his study, gathered up his notes on Denison, placed them in the fireplace and burnt them. He wrote the telegram out exactly as he had done yesterday…

_Phryne. Have ticket. Dying to see you. Jack._

When he got to the station he sent the young Constable down to the post office with the telegram and burned the rest of his file notes. He also sent another Constable to the Council office to pick up the plans for the residential building beside the abandoned warehouse for him to study.

* * *

Jack filled his scorched lungs with air from the window. This time, by running directly to the stairwell once he had cleared the bottom floor, he had been able to stop the four people from coming down. However, that delay had prevented him from making it to the man in the backroom. He had saved the baby again, though. Exhausted he slid, with his back to the wall, down to the ground, knees bent. He let his arms rest on his knees and looked expectantly at the ceiling.

“Hello, Jack.” Her smile was wide and eyes bright.

As he returned her smile, he remembered his resolution. “I wanted to say, for one hundred-plus you look remarkably well, Miss Fisher. Also,” he tilted his head, “I like what you have done with your hair.” 

She fluttered her eyelashes at him. “Thank you, Jack. The not aging is an unexpected benefit of crossing timelines.” 

He gazed at her; his compliments, whilst still slightly clunky, were definitely an improvement on the telescope fiasco. Now, what else to say to a woman who had been waiting ninety years to see you… maybe?… he wasn’t sure… no, bugger it, it might be exactly the right thing… “Also, my case closure rate has declined noticeably since you left.” 

He watched her nervously. Her eyes widened… he started to fidget with his collar. She opened her mouth, but then closed it again… he swallowed hard, perhaps he should have gone with something about the colour of her eyes after all? 

When she spoke, it was in a voice that was far from steady. “Jack Robinson, one day you will turn my head saying things like that.” A slow smile formed on her lips, her eyes seemed to glisten and her cheeks glowed. From his point of view she was breathtaking.

“If I were to touch you now, would I be sent back to the start of the day?” he asked.

“Yes,” she replied.

“That is a shame, because I would very much like to kiss you, Miss Fisher.”

A look of delight settled on her face. “And I would very much like for that to have been possible, Jack.”

He nodded; whilst not as good as a kiss, it was a definite understanding. “I guess I’ll just save it for another time. Speaking of which, any thoughts on how I do it? How do I save them all, next time?”

The smile faded. “You can’t, it's not possible. If it helps, the man who dies is a drug addict who was probably so high he had no idea what was going on.”

Jack dropped his eyes. “Thanks, but his death is still my responsibility.”

She hadn’t expected any other response. She watched him, waiting.

“We need to stop the fire.” 

She grinned, her Jack, so predictable.

“If the fire never happens, no one dies,” he reasoned.

Her heart clenched, yes, no one dies, including you. She had spent the first ten years following his death researching the fire, going through old papers, eyewitness accounts and police files, including his, convinced this was more than an unfortunate accident. Nothing. Other than a growing suspicion that the answer to the mystery lay in the man in front of her now. A man who was meticulous with his paperwork and yet strangely she had found there were large gaps in his notes. She had spent the next ten years working out how to find him, a further twenty years analysing the potential outcomes of changing a timeline at given points, forty years developing or sourcing the technology she required to get here and the last ten or so years trying to convince herself not to do it.

“Some of your file notes are missing, Jack. Do you know where they are?”

“Ah…” he looked guilty, “that would be because I burned them, after our first meeting.”

She stared at him, incredulous. This was one of the reasons you shouldn't time travel, people had a million and one ways of stuffing everything up. She briefly wondered how much quicker things would have been resolved if he hadn’t destroyed vital evidence.

“I didn’t want you to waste your life trying to work out who had murdered me,” he explained.

“Well,” she said pointedly, “thank goodness that hasn’t happened.”

Jack didn't feel there was a lot of sincerity in her voice.

“Instead, I spent years pointlessly trying to work out how to save you without dramatically altering the timelines. Whilst you…”

Jack realised he may have made a tactical error in mentioning the burning of the notes.

“...you decide to just burn everything without one thought about how that may irrevocably change all of time! Do you have any idea of how much damage you have done?”

Jack shook his head. Truth be told, he had no idea what was going on, other than this was most definitely _not_ the reunion he had been hoping for.

“No? Well, neither do I… but you’ve done something… and now something else, if not many somethings, will have changed because of this… and I’ll be the one that has to clean it up!” Or pay for it, she thought. Though there was every chance she was already paying but just didn’t know it… perhaps on some alternate timeline where Jack hadn’t burned all his notes, she had already saved her man and was riding off into the sunset with him? She sincerely hoped so. She turned her mind back to this, this far more troublesome version of Jack that fate had given her.

“Sorry,” he ventured, not sounding particularly penitent.

Who was she kidding, she realised, in every timeline this man would be equally stubborn. “Insincere apology not accepted. Come on, give me your hand,” her head disappeared briefly only to return, “and promise me this time you will do exactly what you did the _first_ time so I can sort this out.”

“I can’t let people die, not when I know I can save them,” he said reasonably. 

She accepted the point. “But only what you need to do to save them. Promise?”

He considered the parameters of the promise. He knew now he couldn’t save them all and that his attempt at saving her had failed too. Their only chance lay in her discovering how to stop the fire. “I promise.” As he stood Jack realised he had not thanked her for saving him all these times. “I appreciate what you’re doing, Miss Fisher, to help me,” he said as he touched her hand.

“Might pay to hold the thanks, you may not have noticed but things arent exactly going to plan."


	5. Chapter 5

MELBOURNE - 4 NOVEMBER 1929

True to his promise, and more than a little worried she would still be upset at him, Jack went through all the motions as he had done on the original day, except he still had the constable send the telegram and he saved the extra people. As he failed to save the man in the back room, again, he really hoped that she had worked something out because there was no way he wanted to repeat this day. At the moment, having let the unfortunate man die four times, his own death seemed fair recompense.

He smashed the glass out of the window, and let himself slide wearily to the floor, back against the wall, knees up to his chest, arms crossed on top of them. And waited.

“Hello, Jack.” Her voice was as cheery as ever.

He looked up, surprised to find that this moment still made the whole nightmare worthwhile. He stood. “Miss Fisher,” he tilted his head in acknowledgement.

“Still so formal?”

“Always.”

She bit her lip. “Another prophecy?”

“I hope not, I don't think so, but I can't bear to re-live this day,” he admitted, “especially now I know there’s nothing left I can do to change the outcome.”

“I know how you feel.”

He tilted his head again, an invitation for her to explain, but she chose not to. He let it go. “Did you find a way to prevent the fire?” To hear the casual tone in which he spoke, it would be hard to appreciate how much he had riding on her answer.

“Not yet,” she admitted, “I did review your notes though.”

“You left them out of order,” Jack accused her, remembering how he had had to reorganise everything before burning them.

“Sorry, after searching for them for ninety years I was surprisingly excited to find them. Anyway, I can see that Denison had been increasing his activity, that he had a wide variety of ‘interests’ in this vicinity and that he really did not like the fact you kept arresting his minions. A dead body outside one of his warehouses? You were always going to show up. I'm guessing some of his associates were laying in wait for you.”

“Yes, but knowing who is behind it doesn’t help us stop the fire…” Jack said, despair creeping into his voice.

“Don't jump to conclusions,” she admonished him, “Tell me what’s been going on since I left with father.”

Jack thought deeply about his response… every day has been a drudgery because no matter how interesting the murder, there has been no chance that you would stroll in expecting to be included… at the end of each successful investigation I sit alone in my front room, whiskey in hand and long to be in your parlour at Wardlow… In short, I count the days to when I will see you again like a love struck idiot… But of course he spoke of none of this.

“The troubles in America have affected us, even in Melbourne… the docks are noticeably quieter… the number of unemployed is increasing every day. Even here,” he waved his hands to encompass the burning building in which he stood, “a few months ago I’d be willing to bet most of these people would have been living in perfectly reasonable accommodation… now they are forced to deal with slum landlords.”

“Jack, talk me through what happened today?”

This was a good interrogation technique, Jack acknowledged; she must have the notes of the investigation but was questioning him to gather his personal opinion, his eyewitness account… looking for discrepancies and additional detail. He cast his mind back and let his words flow unchecked.

Collins had briefed him on the way to the station: the deceased had been in his early twenties, an unemployed dockworker by the look of his clothes, perhaps living rough. His pockets were strangely empty, no obvious evidence of beating or defensive injuries. Doctor MacMillan would be performing a full autopsy later that day. No family had yet come forth and it was possible he was one of many young male immigrants currently flooding into Australia, fleeing the economic turbulence in Europe and America. So there was a good chance he was on his own and his identity would never be known. It was a sad way for a young life to end.

Jack had organised for a contingent of constables to take descriptions around the area where the body had been found in the hope that someone might step forward with the young man’s name. Then he and Collins had gone to the scene of the crime, just behind the building in which he currently stood. As Collins walked him through his observations, Jack’s attention had been caught by a flash of red petticoat disappearing into the darkness of a doorway. Thinking the owner of said petticoat may have important information, he had excused himself, telling Collins to stay with the body. He ducked into the doorway but she was gone. He had climbed some stairs but finding no trace of her he had come back down intending to go back to Collins. He'd arrange a search of the building, they'd find her.

Just before he reached the doorway they had jumped him from behind.

He had awoken to find himself alone on a chair in an unknown room, disorientated, confused and nursing a chemically induced headache. Stumbling to the door he had opened it only for his nostrils to be assaulted by the smell of smoke. The acrid flavour had brought his mind back into focus and he had begun to knock on doors, rousing the occupants and sending them out of the burning building. As he reached the upper levels he found some confused or already overcome by the fumes and those he guided, or carried, out of the building himself. In total, nineteen souls owed their lives to Detective Inspector Jack Robinson that day. And one man, his death.

“Why, if the purpose of this whole charade was your death, why were you not restrained in the room?”

“I don’t know,” Jack replied. He looked down at his wrists, noticing for the first time that they were marked. He held them up to her. “I was, look there’s bruising from the rope.”

“So, someone released you from your bindings before you gained consciousness?”

Neither of them mentioned the fact that this important clue had been lost in the fire with the incineration of his body.

He thought back, a brief image of a woman flitted at the edge of his mind… the red of a petticoat and the soft lilt of an Irish accent. He described what little he could recall to Phryne.

“Okay, Jack, that’s enough for now.”

The room had filled with smoke, Jack’s eyes were watering, the heat was almost unbearable.

“Give me your hand, and remember - don’t change anything, and don’t try to find the woman yourself!”

As Jack’s fingers brushed against hers he said, “I appreciate the irony of having you tell me not to go off and investigate something on my own.”

Her reply was full of laughter, “And I fully appreciate the gentle way in which you just called me a hypocrite.”


	6. Chapter 6

MELBOURNE - 4 NOVEMBER 1929

Jack woke the next day with a clear memory of Phryne telling him not to go looking for the woman in the red petticoat and, in fairness, he did consider listening to her - for all of thirty seconds. But this was an investigation and it behooved them both to participate in its resolution, especially as a man had died. He arranged for the constable to deliver the telegram and gave a description of the woman to another constable to type up. He had already been at his desk for hours when the call about the dead body came through. 

He smashed the glass out of the window, slid down the wall, knees up and arms resting on them and looked up, waiting.

“Hello, Jack.” 

He smiled. Despite the unusual circumstances, she was Phryne, he had missed her and now she was back. It was just like old times but without the whiskey. And with a lot more smoke. “Miss Fisher.”

“I’m sorry you had to go through the day again.”

“Likewise, though I’m always glad to see you,” he added.

“Likewise,” she replied, her voice strangely low. She changed the subject quickly, speaking in her normal timbre now. “I found your woman in red. One of the constables spoke to someone who recognised her.” She didn't bother to add that by this time he was already dead. “Jack, you need to be careful, I know you’ve changed the timeline again. There is no logical reason for the constables to have been asking about her. In any event, the idiot that was put in charge of the investigation into your dea…, of the investigation,” she corrected herself, “didn't make the connection.”

“How could he, Miss Fisher? He wasn't to know I saw her,” he said reasonably. “Who was it, by the way, in charge of the case?”

“Owens.”

“Oh, you're right, he is an idiot.” He smiled again. “Tell me about our mystery woman.” 

Phryne launched into her latest discoveries. The woman had arrived in Melbourne from Ireland the previous year. She had initially found employment with a draper but as the financial crisis had begun to bite, like so many others she had been let go. Her sources of income had been decidedly more dubious since. The most important fact that Phryne had discovered though was that her name was Molly O’Dowd which was also the surname of the man who Jack had been unable to save in the back room. In fact he was her younger brother. There had been no reports of Molly since the day of the fire.

“We need to find out everything we can about the brother,” Jack exclaimed, sensing a breakthrough in the case was imminent. 

“Already done,” she said smugly. “Sean O’Dowd was a dock worker who owed money to the wrong people. To make up the deficit he was hiring himself out as a thug but he wasn’t very good at it, actually he was a liability.”

“So we have two siblings, neither of whom was ever seen again after the fire, and...” he watched her for confirmation, “evidence of only one body in that back room?”

She nodded. “Have I mentioned how much I've missed this? Working with you?”

“No, you haven't but it is duly noted,” he said, looking pleased. “And, obviously mutual,” he added quickly. 

She grinned. “But, of course, we do have another body, one that had been dead for nearly twenty four hours and that just happened to be full of contaminated cocaine - I found that in Mac’s report.”

“So O’Dowd was just convenient bait and that was Molly in the back room, the one I didn’t save?” 

“Of course, but Jack, she was already dead before you regained consciousness.”

“You can’t know that,” he protested.

“I can and I do. I went back and spoke to her. I tried to reason with her but she chose to overdose anyway.” Phryne sighed. “She thought I was an angel come to take her to her brother, I couldn’t convince her otherwise. She died happy at least. It was her that undid the ropes. She knew you had seen her, so she ducked into a cupboard. From there she saw two of Denison's men grab you, knock you out and carry you into the room. Then she watched as they lit the fire under the staircase. When they had left she went to find you, wanting you to complete your investigation into her brother’s death. ”

Jack silently thanked the poor girl. If she hadn't untied him innocent people would have died. “So I can’t go far enough back to save Sean and without that Molly won’t let us save her? Can you go back and save Sean?”

Phryne shook her head. “Even I'm not prepared to risk mucking around with another point in time. There's no way of knowing how much damage I've already caused…”

Jack nodded, maybe one day he would understand exactly what she had done to find him and he wondered if he would think it was worth it. He looked around the room. It was filling quickly with smoke and he realised he was getting light headed. “I think we need to go,” he pointed out.

She looked sad. “I know.”

He tilted his head and this time she took up the invitation to explain.

“If you don't follow Molly into the building because you already know Sean's identity, they won't capture you and the fire won't happen.”

“Isn't that what we want?” he asked, confused. 

“You’ll get on that ship tomorrow and go to England…”

He was starting to wonder if the smoke was affecting him more than he realised because he couldn't see the problem.

“...and so this is the last time I'll ever see you.”

His heart stopped. _This_ he had not thought about. He was going to lose her. “Then take me with you, don't send me back! There’s nothing more I can change anyway.”

“I can’t, Jack. I wish I could. All this time I've been trying to work out how to keep you with me, each time approaching things differently, but nothing has worked. The best I can do is send you back to her, I mean, 1929 me.”

“Do you need more time? Because now we know that Sean’s death was just conveniently timed for Denison’s plan and that Molly chose to end her own life I don't care how many times we repeat this day,” he said, his voice tinged with desperation.

“Time travel is a strange thing, it takes a toll. I've sent you back four times already. That's more than anyone has done before. I'd risk my life for you, Jack, but I won't risk yours.”

He recognised that tone, her decision was final. “So, this is goodbye?” 

“You'll have 1929 me,” she pointed out.

“But she’s _not_ you!” He looked devastated.

The enormity of her miscalculation hit her. Somehow over the years she had forgotten the full extent of Jack’s moral code, failing to understand that he would see them as two different women, not interchangeable pieces in the fabric of time. She looked around the smoke filled room. This was an esoteric conversation there wasn’t time to have right now, especially with a sceptic. “Jack, please? There's a woman lying in her bed alone in a London townhouse dreaming about you, and tomorrow she's going to wake up to an urgent telegram telling her you’re dead. And her life is going to end in many ways that day too and she is going to spend nearly ninety years trying to work out how to find you again.”

He shook his head, “She isn’t you, she’ll never be you.” 

“She _is_ me, in every way that counts, she _is_ me,” Phryne pleaded.

“No,” he lowered his forehead to rest on his arms. “I don't understand this time thing but I do know she isn't the woman I have been thinking of as soon as I wake, the woman I wait all day to talk to, the woman who saves me at the end of that day. Don't you see? It’s _you_ I love, not her.”

She looked at the man in front of her and made a decision. “You’re right, Jack. I'm sorry, it isn't the same,” she said, her voice full of regret. “I... I can't take you with me and I can't come down to you but…” her voice quivered, “but I can stay here with you until…” she couldn’t finish.

“Yes,” his head shot up, “yes, I’d like that. Stay with me till then? It won’t be long.”

She nodded, trying for a smile and, to her credit, getting pretty close. “I'm trying to remember, the things you talk of when you're waiting for certain death.”

Jack thought back to the trenches. “You talk about the little things, like how you stub your toe on the same piece of uneven floor every morning but tomorrow you're finally going to get some nails and hammer it down properly.”

She chuckled, “Yes, that’s right, and the things that people have done that made you laugh. Like the way you blushed when I teased you for dreaming about me.” 

“Yes, well,” Jack looked slightly abashed, “I can’t believe you impersonated an angel.”

She winked. “They can add it to my already extensive list of sins.”

He grinned before continuing wistfully, “I always hoped we’d add a few sins of our own to that list.”

“Oh, we would have done, Jack. I had plans for when you got off that ship that made even me blush,” she laughed.

“Now _that_ would have been something,” he sighed happily before beginning to cough uncontrollably. The smoke was getting thick now.

“Will you come closer, Jack? It’s getting smokey in here and I can’t see you clearly.” 

“Yes.” He struggled weakly to his feet, fighting to stay conscious, his mind focussed solely on seeing her face this one last time. As he stumbled forward, his eyesight started to dim and he called out to her. “Where are you, Phryne?”

Her voice when she answered was so close it startled him. “I’m here, Jack, and I’m sorry but I didn’t spend all this time just for both of us to lose you; you dear, sweet, noble but very foolish man.” 

For the briefest of moments he felt her lips on his and he reached up to hold her there. As he lost consciousness he felt her slip something that felt like a square of card into his hand and his fingers tightened around it.

“Au revoir, Jack. Remember me, once in awhile.”


	7. Chapter 7

EPILOGUE - NORTHERN FRANCE MAY 1940

From the fourth floor of the burning building Jack fired down on the young men, keeping them pinned behind the overturned car, whilst Phryne carried the last of the children to the outstretched arms in the back of the truck. He stopped long enough to gaze at her one last time, ducking back quickly as bullets raked the wall beside him. As soon as it stopped he was back at the window firing as the truck trundled away. She would make it to the allied line easily. Return fire soon had him pulling back into the safety of the room.

Looking around the small room he found himself in, it struck him that safety was very much a relative term. He took his helmet off and used the back of his hand to wipe the sweat and grime from his forehead. At least he hadn't had to break the window this time. The Germans had been taking pot shots before they had seen the truck and, as the sound of the staircase collapsing reached him, he knew the burning building was empty. Well, except for him obviously.

He and Phryne had stumbled across the orphanage whilst fleeing in front of what looked like the entire German army, with tanks. Somehow the nuns in charge of twenty five children had missed the fact that the invasion had begun. Working twenty four hours without sleep they had managed to get them organised and dispatched in a hodgepodge of vehicles until there was only the truck. But as the last of the children were being put into it, their lookout had reported two German scouts heading their way.

He had exchanged looks with Phryne. “You're the better driver.” He handed her the keys.

She gave a wry smile. “I am but I never thought you’d admit it.”

A smile played across his lips. “I’ll deny I said that till the day I die.”

She stared at him, his gallows humour was sometimes unsettling. “What will you do?”

He glanced at their machine gun and the ammunition bag. “I'll go to the fourth floor, the angle will be good. I can keep them pinned behind that car outside the barn whilst you get the truck out of here.”

She glanced at the staircase; a fire had begun when one of the children had knocked over a lamp in their haste.

“It won't matter,” he shrugged.

She surprised him by throwing herself at him.

He held her head in his hands and kissed her like he had on the runway in Melbourne the first time she had left him behind. As they pulled apart he wiped tears from her eyes with his thumbs. “I need to go now before the fire stops me from getting up the stairs.”

“Jack, I…”

He placed a finger on her lips. “Don't. Please? It won’t make it any easier.”

She nodded. He rested his forehead against hers.

After a moment he spoke again, his voice low and unsteady. “Phryne? I don't think I can walk away. Can… can you do it?”

She drew back, took a deep breath, raising her hand to the side of his face, caressing it softly as she looked into his eyes. “Au revoir, Jack,” she whispered, before she turned and left the room.

As he watched her leave him, again, he briefly wondered if he should be worried about how easy she seemed to find it. The tears had been reassuring though. Two seconds later he picked up the gun and munitions bag, slammed his helmet on his head and raced up the stairs.

And now here he was.

She had gotten away so there was no point firing anymore and he really had no desire to kill the young lads below, after all none of this madness was their fault… Turning from the window he slid, with his back to the wall, down to the ground, knees bent. He let his arms rest on his knees, contemplating all that had brought him to this moment...

_He had thought deeply about their last conversation in that burning slum in Melbourne but had been unable to reconcile the two versions into the one woman. He had loved the woman who left him on that airfield in Melbourne and she had come back to him, albeit in circumstances he could never have anticipated. They had worked a case together and she had told him she loved him and proved it. The woman in London was not part of that experience, and maybe one day she would become the Phryne he loved but, now he no longer died in the fire, maybe she never would._

_And so he had got on the ship, determined to tell her in person that things had changed. He would explain that he had unexpectedly met someone from his past, not exactly an old friend, but someone he cared for very deeply. However, their timing had been off and they had found they couldn't be together. He hadn't meant it to happen but it had and it wouldn't be right for him to be with her, knowing he was in love with someone else. It appeared that, once again, his heart was taken._

_But then he had seen her waiting at the dock, scarlet red coat and matching hat vibrant amongst the muted colours of the crowd, and he had been shocked at his physical reaction; pulse racing, breath shortening, he literally felt weak at the knees. As far as his body was concerned the woman he loved was there, arms waving, eyes glistening, calling his name in the way only she could. He tried to reason with himself, this isn't the woman who searched for you for ninety years, who saved your life five times… but his arguments faltered in the face of the empirical evidence that she quite clearly was._

_By the time his treacherous feet had brought him to a standstill in front of her, the voice in his head accusing him of betrayal had dwindled to virtual silence. When she threw herself into his arms, causing him to drop his suit case, any lurking shame had receded completely because this was Phryne. He didn't understand it but all his senses told him this was the woman he loved, both now and in that smoke filled room. His arms had tightened around her and he had kissed her for all he was worth, tears of relief welling in his eyes, grateful for this second chance._

_They had spent six months in England and it had been glorious. True to her word she had done things to and with him that made her blush and frankly left him a quivering wreck, ensuring they had made both a significant number of additions to her list of sins and opened up an account for him._

_In between her reorganisation of her parent's financial affairs they had worked a number of investigations, including the murder of the lover of the eccentric Earl of Langdon. Of course this time she had had no need to delve into his experiments; instead Jack had spent night after night quizzing the man. He had also started to collect and read anything he could on time travel, from novels to newspaper articles. So much so, she had begun to tease him… ‘Whatever would Mrs Bolkonsky say if she saw you now?’... He would raise his eyebrows and reply, in a fake accent… ‘Your greatest passion is close at hand, Inspector’… look around and say… ‘What have you done with those bloody sandwiches?’... and they would laugh._

_And when they returned to Melbourne to continue their investigations, they ignored insinuations and enquiries about their relationship. Those nearest to them knew that those evenings drinking whiskey in her parlour ended in her boudoir, with the majority of the rest spent at his cottage. But she continued to appear on her own at just enough social events for there to be doubt and her loyal Aunt helped too, pouring scorn on any gossip of the socialite and the divorced policeman. No one ever dared ask Jack directly, of course._

_Things had continued like this until the war had broken out, when they had volunteered their services and, with their impressive record of working together, the British Command had naturally been keen to avail themselves of the offer._

...The room was getting hot now, with smoke pouring in around the ill-fitting door. The Germans had long since given up on firing, the building was fully ablaze, no one was making it out alive. Ex-Detective Inspector Jack Robinson, currently serving as a Captain in the British Expeditionary Forces, sat on the floor under the window holding a much worn photograph. He gazed up at the ceiling, wondering idly... death by smoke or rescue by the woman he loved.

Either way, he understood now, it was just a matter of time…


End file.
